


Prima Facie

by Morgan (morgan32)



Series: In Vino Veritas [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Slash, Wincest - Freeform, daddycest, first kill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-04
Updated: 2009-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean makes his first kill, his relationship with his father shifts gear again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prima Facie

**Author's Note:**

> The hunt in this fic is based on the story Dean told Gordon Walker in Bloodlust. The rest of the fic is my own.

Dean had a death-grip on the werewolf's forearm. Those terrible claws were an inch from his neck and it took all the strength he possessed to keep it that inch away from slicing into his flesh. The creature's face moved closer to his, its breath hot in his face, its yellow eyes filling his vision.

_Damn, you stink!_ he thought. He would have said it aloud, but he had no breath.

A mouth full of fangs snapped at Dean's eyes and he choked on its hot, rotten breath. A sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan escaped Dean as he fought to keep it off him. With his free hand he quested blindly for his gun, but it was lost somewhere in the long, dark grass.

A gunshot rang through the wood, frighteningly close to Dean's head. Abruptly, he was free. The werewolf was off him, snarling. If it was hurt, there was no sign. It was going after Dad!

Dean rolled and scrambled up. He had no idea where to find his gun, but didn't waste time searching: it would be useless anyway. He heard his father cry out and knew the werewolf had him. A glint from the ground caught his eye and Dean pounced on it. The crossbow! With no hesitation, Dean aimed it toward the sounds of struggle.

"Over here!" he yelled. "Come and get it, you furry bastard!"

The werewolf whirled and roared as it leapt for him. Dean fired. The silver-tipped arrow flew straight and true: right into the creature's heart. The werewolf squealed in pain and Dean knew he'd done it. But it was still flying toward him, the momentum of its leap carrying it through the air. Dean's half-second of hesitation was too long. The dying werewolf slammed into him, crushing the crossbow between their bodies and carrying them both to the ground. Something sharp raked Dean's cheek as he fell backward into the mud and leaves.

"Dean!" John sounded terrified.

The stinking weight on him was too much. Dean could not move. He tried to talk, to tell Dad he was unhurt, but he didn't have enough breath. Moments later, John was dragging the thing off him.

"Dean! Are you okay? Talk to me, son."

With an effort, Dean managed to sit up a little, resting his weight on one elbow. His shirt was sticky with warm blood. Pain lanced through his chest. "Dad!" he gasped, but could manage no more. His vision swirled in blackness.

John's flashlight snapped on. He checked the werewolf first, confirming it was dead, then moved the light to Dean. Dean heard his sharp intake of breath.

Instantly, Dad was on the ground beside him, the flashlight propped up on a rock, his hands unbuttoning Dean's shirt. "Just lie still, son. Don't try to move." Impatiently, he tore Dean's shirt open and lifted up the t-shirt beneath it.

"How bad is it?" Dean asked; his voice came out hoarse with the pain.

John shone the flashlight over Dean's body. "Thank god. Jesus, you gave me a scare."

"How bad?" Dean repeated, reassured, but aware that he _was_ hurt.

"You're just bruised, son. The blood isn't yours. I can't see a wound anywhere." He shone the light into Dean's face; Dean squeezed his eyes shut with a sound of protest.

"Can you breathe okay?"

Dean took an experimental breath, let it out, and took a second, deeper breath. He winced. "Yeah. A bit."

"That hurt?"

"Not bad," Dean answered, already feeling better.

"No broken ribs, then." John turned the flashlight on the monster once more. "Fucking good shot, Dean. That was one in a million."

The pride in his dad's voice made Dean smile. That alone was worth a dozen broken ribs.

The adrenaline rush was beginning to fade, but something else took its place: comprehension. Dean did it. He killed the werewolf. He was a hunter, like his dad. He grinned. "Right through the heart," he declared proudly.

"You need to work on your duck-and-cover, though," John added critically.

For once, Dean didn't mind the criticism. He felt a laugh bubbling up inside. He had no clue what was funny, but it didn't seem to matter. He laughed. "That was a blast!" he announced.

John stood, then reached down to help Dean up. Dean accepted the offered hand and gazed up at the full moon above the treetops. He was a hunter now.

"You're hurt," John said suddenly. He grabbed Dean's jaw, turning his head and raising the flashlight again.

Dean remembered something catching his cheek. He could feel the blood flow then, a slow, ticklish trickle on his skin. He started to say, "It's nothing," but was caught by John's expression. John was looking, not at Dean's face exactly, but at the blood upon his cheek. It was a strange look, one Dean couldn't quite decipher.

John raised his hand and wiped away some of the blood on Dean's face. Dean hissed at the touch on his raw skin, but he met his father's eyes in the dark. John was silent.

In that moment, Dean felt everything change. It was so long since his father had looked at him that way, he hadn't even recognised it at first. Now he did, and suddenly the air was no longer cold around him, but Dean was scared. Scared he would spoil it all over again.

Then John leaned forward and kissed Dean's cut cheek, just a light touch of his lips. Dean's breath escaped in an involuntary sigh. John's lips moved against his skin, there came a new touch, warm and...oh, god, it was his tongue. Dean moaned and turned his head, just a little, to return the kiss. Their mouths met and Dean tasted his own blood on his father's tongue. It was intoxicating, sexy as hell, though Dean couldn't have said why. The coppery taste of blood, _his_ blood, in his father's kiss. All the blood in his body seemed to rush south, brining his dick to full, demanding hardness.

Dean leaned in closer, reaching for John's body. He rubbed his groin against John's leg, wanting Dad to feel his erection. They were still kissing. John's hand travelled down Dean's side, over his hip. He worked his hand between their bodies, palming Dean's dick through his jeans. He rubbed firmly and Dean cried out, the sound muffled through their joined mouths. Holy crap, he was almost there, ready to come in his pants.

That was when John pushed him away. He turned away from Dean. "No," he rasped. "No."

"Dad!" Dean followed him, almost tripping over the dead werewolf in his haste. "Dad, it's okay..."

John whirled, grabbing Dean by his arms. "No!" he growled, his grip tightening almost painfully. "I'm _not_ gonna fuck you in the woods like some sleaze who paid you for it!"

Understanding was like a fist in Dean's guts. "Oh, shit. You're never gonna forgive me for that, are you?" He'd worked so hard to regain his father's trust and to fix things with Sammy. He was never going to fix it, was he?

John released him, letting his hands fall. "You're forgiven, son. But don't expect me to forget it."

"I'm sorry." Dean started to turn away. It had been a nice thought while it lasted.

"I meant," John said quietly, "that if we're gonna do this, it shouldn't be here."

Dean stared at him. Did Dad really just say...?

"I want you," John added, "in a bed, where we can take our time."

Dean swallowed. "Y-you mean that?"

"I do. If you want to."

_If? Of course I want to!_ "Tonight?" Dean asked eagerly.

"Tonight." John straightened his shoulders. "First, we've got work to do."

***

John splashed the last of the gasoline over the werewolf's body. He nodded to Dean.

Dean held an improvised torch: a small branch hacked from a tree with a gasoline-soaked cloth wrapped around one end. He flicked open his zippo lighter as John watched and fired up the cloth. Then he walked slowly around the makeshift pyre, lighting it.

The smell of burning flesh and hair was horrible, but Dean stood tall, watching. He had killed a monster, but they were burning a human body. This was a person. He lived a life, had friends, paid taxes. And every month at the full moon, he ran wild and tore innocent people into small, bloody pieces. He had to die.

Dean watched the body burn and knew that, because of him, this monster would never kill again. Above the flames, he saw his father's face. The look of pride in John's eyes made Dean happier than he could ever remember feeling.

It came home to him then, just how extraordinary his life was. Every other sixteen-year-old in the country was huddled over schoolwork or fretting about pimples. They dreamed about reaching second base with the girl next door. Dean killed a werewolf tonight. He was a hunter, like his dad. He was burning a corpse in the woods while his little brother was asleep in their car, and he was going to have sex tonight...with his father.

_And I wouldn't change a damn thing. This is living, man. This is for real._

He met John's eyes across the fire and grinned, elated. John smiled back and Dean knew that he would never want or need anything more than this.

***

John carried Sammy from the car. He was heavy, too old to be carried, really. Sam half-woke as he crossed the parking lot and hung onto John's neck, his head on John's shoulder. Dean ran ahead and opened the motel room door. John laid Sammy in his bed and drew the blanket over him.

He touched the boy's shoulder, gently shaking him awake. "Sammy. Sam, listen to me."

Sammy cuddled under the blanket, gazing up at him tiredly.

"Sammy, your brother is hurt," John said gently.

Sammy bolted up, looking around for Dean. He saw him there, covered with blood. "Dean!"

"'S'okay, Sammy," Dean said. "The blood ain't mine."

"He took a fall, bruised his ribs," John explained. "It doesn't look bad, but I'm going to get him checked out. Just in case." He pushed Sammy back down onto the bed, gently but firmly. "I don't want you to worry, Sammy."

As John spoke, he felt Dean move up behind him, almost close enough to touch. Dean was a natural flirt and it was effective, reminding John of their earlier kiss.

 

"I'm okay, Sammy," Dean promised. "Dad's just bein' careful."

John spoke to Dean without turning around. "You checked the windows?"

"Salt's intact," Dean reported.

"Good. Sammy, have you got your gun?"

Sammy slid his hand under the pillow. "Yes, sir, but – "

"You're old enough to be safe on your own for a few hours, son. We won't be long." He grasped Sammy's shoulder, reassuring. "Sleep well, Sammy." He stood.

Dean leaned over the bed and patted Sammy's curls. Sammy batted his hand away, sleepily making a face. "'M not a baby, Dean," he slurred.

"I know you're not, squirt," Dean chuckled. "Sleep well. We'll be back before you know it."

John headed for the door. Watching Dean with Sammy, he half-wished Dean would change his mind. He didn't want to worry Sammy, but this was the best cover story for their absence. Neither was it wholly a lie: Dean was hurt. Dean followed him from the room and John locked the door.

"Are we really goin' to the ER?" Dean asked.

"Not unless you want to spend the night in a cell. You're covered in blood."

"Why panic Sammy like that?" A note of belligerence crept into Dean's voice. He was so protective of his little brother.

John stopped at the car. "Minor injuries happen all the time when you're hunting. Sammy needs to get used to it. This gives us a reason to be gone for a while. Unless you've changed your mind?"

Dean raised his chin defiantly. "I ain't changin' my mind. Where are we going?"

"The next motel down the road."

***

Dean picked the lock on an empty room and they slipped inside. The room had a king-sized bed, already made up.

John shrugged off his coat. "Are you sure about this, Dean? Things were intense in the woods. We both got carried away."

"I'm sure. If you are."

John considered the question. He was through denying his feelings for Dean. He would probably never be entirely comfortable with it, but he was honest with himself. He loved Dean. And he wanted him. Dean's feelings for _him_ were another matter. But John had come to understand that it was too late to ask Dean to be a normal kid. It was too late for so many things. Moreover, this seemed to be the lesser of two evils. John wasn't certain whether that conclusion was honest or selfish, but it was Dean's choice, too. John would go with it, and accept the consequences when they came.

To Dean, he said, "Yes, I'm sure. But let's be clear on the rules first."

Dean's look became suspicious. "Rules?"

John sat down on the end of the bed. "Two rules, Dean. One: if _anyone_ so much as suspects, this ends. That includes your brother. So we only do this when we won't be missed."

Dean's frown smoothed out and he nodded. "Sure. I mean, that makes sense."

"Rule two: you can screw all the girls you want to, Dean. I won't get jealous or try to spoil your fun. But the only _man_ who gets to touch you is me. No one else, not for any reason. Is that clear?"

Dean smiled cheekily. "Jealous?"

"Clear?" John repeated forcefully.

Dean's smile vanished. "Yes, sir," he answered meekly.

A hard knot of tension inside John's chest eased. This was why John believed he was doing the right thing by Dean. Ever since the night he caught his son selling his ass on a street-corner, John had been looking for a way to make certain it wouldn't happen again. Not because of jealousy, but because he loved his son. John needed to protect Dean, even from himself. It was a bitter irony that the best way to protect him was to do a thing almost everyone else would see as the worst kind of abuse. Dean was sixteen. Yes, he was young. But Dean had borne an adult's responsibilities for a long time and tonight he made his first kill. He was no longer a child.

Dean's assent changed everything.

Dean came toward him and John stood to meet his son, nervous and excited all at once. Their eyes met and John reached for his son. Dean moved into his arms and somehow it felt so natural, so right. John touched Dean's face where the blood had dried on his cheek. There was dirt mixed in with the blood and Dean's shirt was soaked with gore.

"Do you want to clean up first?" John offered.

Dean looked down at his clothing with a grimace. "Only if you want me to. I don't wanna wait." He kissed John.

All hesitation vanished. John kissed Dean back, using his tongue to force Dean's lips apart, exploring Dean's mouth. He ran his hands down Dean's lean body, savouring the heat of him. He guided Dean's hand between their bodies. He wanted Dean to do more than just say yes; he wanted Dean to show him that he truly wanted this. Dean's fingers worked at the buckle of John's belt. John pushed Dean's bloodstained shirt off his shoulders. He lifted the t-shirt, and Dean had to stop for John to pull the t-shirt off over his head.

John let the clothing fall to the floor. He closed his fist in Dean's hair, jerking his head back and exposing his throat. Dean grunted in pain and surprise, one hand moving automatically to his defence. He realised, then, that this wasn't an attack and let his hand fall, relaxing in John's grip. John bent to taste Dean's skin. As he did, he pulled back harder on Dean's hair, forcing him to arch his body. He felt Dean's instinctive struggle...and all the while Dean's hands still worked at John's pants, opening the belt, unfastening each button.

Dean's skin tasted of salt and dried blood. John licked along his throat and felt Dean arch into his touch. He remembered the taste of Dean's blood in the woods, warm and fresh from a wound. Forbidden, and more exciting for it. He groaned, his mouth moving lower. He felt the pulse in Dean's neck beneath his tongue. Dean finally reached the last of John's buttons and pushed his jeans down. He slid his hand into John's underpants, his fingers curling around John's cock. John bit down on Dean's shoulder. He fought not to bite too hard, not to break the skin. He remembered the taste of fresh blood on his tongue. Dean squeezed his shaft, drawing his hand down toward John's centre. Slow, teasing...god, where did he learn to do that?

John shoved Dean away from him and onto the bed. Dean fell backward, bouncing on the mattress. He looked up at John, smiling like that cat that got the cream. He started to undo his belt.

"You might want to take the boots off first," John suggested helpfully. He bent down to take his own advice.

Dean rolled off the bed and unlaced his boots before kicking them off. He shed the rest of his clothing quickly.

John lay naked on the bed, his son's body warm against his. Some of his earlier urgency had abated and he felt more in control. He rolled over to lie on top of Dean, working one knee between his thighs.

Dean spread his legs invitingly. He grabbed John's hand and moved it to his groin. "Dad, please."

John cupped Dean's cock in his big hand, but he didn't do more than that, not yet. Dean tried to move against his hand and John drew back. "Not yet. Keep still."

"But..."

John kissed Dean and murmured against his lips, "I said, keep still." He kissed Dean deeply, drawing Dean's tongue into his mouth, his hand still cupping Dean. He felt Dean's cock twitch against his palm. He shifted lower, kissing Dean's neck, licking a path down his chest. Dean writhed under his tongue and John, god help him, loved every moan. When he reached Dean's navel he circled it with his tongue, moving his hands to curl around Dean's hips. Dean's body was slim and lean; he didn't yet have the musculature he would develop in a few years, and the smooth crests of his hip-bones stood out, framing his groin. John breathed in the clean musk of Dean's sex, rubbing his cheek in the ticklish curly hair above Dean's swollen cock. He breathed across Dean's skin and looked up, up the line of Dean's body. He found Dean looking down at him, his eyes dark with lust.

"Are you gonna...?" Dean breathed.

"You want me to?"

"God, yes!"

John couldn't help smiling. "Oh, to be sixteen again!" John bent his head and licked the head of Dean's cock. Dean gasped and jerked his hips; John held him down firmly. He smiled, pleased by Dean's reaction. He'd fantasised about this for so very long. John sucked Dean into his mouth. Dean tasted of clean sweat and pre-come. His cock slid heavily over John's tongue and John explored the under-ridge and took Dean deeper into his mouth. He felt Dean strain to move under his hands. He drew back, creating suction, and Dean cried out wordlessly.

With only the head of Dean's cock in his mouth, John swirled his tongue around the velvet-hard flesh. It no longer mattered that Dean was his son, only that it was _Dean_, whom he had desired for years. Dean thrusting eagerly into his mouth. Dean, arching beneath him, fists clutching at the comforter he lay on. Dean, who cried out his name, not _Dad_, but _John_, his voice a breathy whisper, strained with pleasure.

Hot semen filled John's mouth. He swallowed and raised his head slowly, wiping his lips with one hand. Dean lay back on the bed, his eyes closed, his body completely relaxed.

"You still in there, Champ?" John asked.

Dean opened his eyes. "Yeah. Oh, yeah," he sighed.

John moved up the bed to lie beside Dean. The change of position made him more aware of his own need, his cock hard and ready between their bodies. But he had pushed Dean too far before; this time he would do nothing until he was certain Dean was ready and willing. John stroked Dean's shoulder and chest with one hand.

Dean smiled up at him. "Man, that was..."

"Only the beginning," John told him.

Dean's eyes widened for a moment. "I never thought you'd...you know...do that for me."

"Do what? Blow you?" John touched Dean's bloodstained cheek, tracing the line of the cut. "Dean, it's all I wanted...for a long time."

Dean rolled onto his side, reaching for him. "But you...you haven't..." he broke off, searching for the words. It was strange to see Dean like this, he was usually so sure of himself, with a wise-ass comment for every occasion. "I mean," he concluded, "ain't you supposed to get a turn?"

John laughed. "There's plenty of time for that." He kissed Dean, still chuckling. "I want you, Dean."

"I noticed." Dean's smile became cocky. He drew a line down John's chest with one finger.

John covered Dean's hand with his own. He lifted Dean's hand to his lips and sucked on two of Dean's fingers. He kept eye contact while he did it, and saw Dean react. John understood, then, what they both needed from this night.

"I mean," John said softly, still holding Dean's hand, "I want you to fuck me." He moved Dean's hand down, wanting him to touch his cock.

Dean rolled on top of him, pressing his groin into John. John could feel Dean's cock, still soft and spent, along the length of his own erection. He looked up into Dean's eyes. For the first time, Dean seemed less than eager.

That look hurt John's ego. Did Dean not want him? Had he misread this so badly?

"Dean?" he tried.

Dean gazed down at him. "I can't...I...I never... God, Dad, why?"

"Why?" John repeated, but suddenly he understood Dean's problem. He reached up to take Dean's face between his hands and pulled him down into a kiss. As they kissed, John wrapped his legs around Dean's thighs, wrapped his arms around Dean's back, hugging him close with his whole body. He let Dean control the kiss, but John controlled everything else, holding Dean, moving against him until at last he felt Dean's cock swell and harden between them. Only then did John relax his hold. A moment later Dean lifted his head, breaking the kiss.

"You've never made love with a man, have you?" John asked him. He stumbled a little over _made love_; the phrase didn't come naturally to him. John would have said _fucked_ or _had sex_, but his choice of words was deliberate, and important.

"What? Of course I have! You know – "

"I'm not talking about fucking in some alley. Have you ever been with a man who wasn't paying you for it?"

He saw Dean struggle with the answer, but eventually Dean nodded. "You're right. Just you."

"Come here." John shifted a little so they lay side by side once more. He slid his arm beneath Dean's body so the boy's head rested on his shoulder. He stroked Dean's back. "Listen to me, son, because this is something I want you to remember." He hadn't planned on making this another kind of training session but perhaps it was inevitable. Dean had been in such a mess back then and they'd never properly talked about it. That wasn't the Winchester way but in this case, John saw, it was a mistake not to talk it out. There were things Dean needed to hear from him.

Dean nodded, a quick motion against John's shoulder. "I'm listening."

"Sex is free, Dean. Most men can get laid easily enough for the price of a drink and a little effort. A man who pays someone for a fuck isn't paying for the sex. He's paying for power. He's paying so you can't say no, to anything. If that's all you've known, Dean, I'm not surprised you've got some fucked up notions of what a man wants from another man."

"Then explain it to me," Dean said. He looked up, meeting John's eyes.

John gazed into that so-sincere look for a moment. Talk wasn't what he wanted, but he had begun this. He should do the thing right. He thought for a minute, figuring out how to say it.

"When I was your age, Dean, if a man liked a man's way of fucking, and didn't want to be a fag, the best he could do was find a woman who would look the other way sometimes. You...kids your age, you have a lot more choices."

"You don't mean..." A look of horror crept into Dean's eyes and suddenly John heard his words the way Dean must have heard them.

He answered quickly. "I'm not talking about your mother and me. But before I met Mary, I was with someone else. A man. And I had to face that future. I ran all the way to Vietnam to avoid it."

"Really?" Dean grinned, interest showing in his eyes. "I thought you just wanted to fight the Commies." His hand began to drift over John's stomach.

"I _did_ want to fight the Commies. That just wasn't the only reason." He was still stroking Dean's warm skin. "Dean...what I'm saying is, taking the woman's place in sex doesn't make you less a man. I asked you to fuck me because I want you."

Dean stroked John's cock. His grip was firm, the movement slow, almost idle, the way he sometimes stroked a gun.

"Do you like it?" John asked.

Dean hesitated. "I do, but...it hurts."

_It hurts_. So much hidden in those two simple words. And the first time, John had forced himself on Dean. He was drunk. He probably hadn't been gentle about it.

"It doesn't have to hurt," John answered. A promise. "You just have to lay the groundwork." He sighed, enjoying Dean's touch. "Do it for me, Dean."

Dean leaned close as if to kiss him, but he held back, his mouth not quite touching John's lips. "Show me how," he whispered. "Teach me."

John smiled. "That," he answered, "will be my pleasure."

***

Dean wanted to protest, but honesty kept him silent. _He's paying for power. He's paying so you can't say no_. Dad was right enough. He understood what Dad was really saying; that the here and now wasn't like that, but Dean was less certain that was true. Dean always followed Dad's orders. Always. Was that something they could turn off, even for this? Maybe it didn't matter. He wasn't naked in bed with his father because of an order. He was here because he wanted to be here.

He accepted the tube of lubricant from John and looked at it, wondering why his dad had this. Had John planned for tonight? Was he carrying lube around for some other reason? What else could you use it for? Dean opened the tube and, following John's directions, squeezed a generous quantity onto his fingers. He didn't really need to be taught what to do, but remembered pain made him ask, because he would not risk hurting his dad. Dad had suffered enough pain for Dean's sake; Dean had treated too many of Dad's injuries to count.

Dean was no virgin. He _had_ been, two years before, that night when his father's drunken kisses went too far. Dean liked it when it was happening but John did hurt him. Afterward, he'd _really_ felt it, and for days. But even inexperienced as he was, Dean knew it didn't have to be that way. Dean started watching gay porn, and that was fun, but he was smart enough to figure out that it wasn't the best source for his sexual education. So, the next time they moved to a new town he took to hanging out in a gay bar, secure behind a fake ID and an equally fake attitude. He watched and listened and learned. Then he discovered he could make money that way, good money. He'd thought he was helping the family by bringing in some cash, and once he figured out the lube thing it wasn't too bad.

John began to roll onto his stomach and Dean put thoughts of the past out of his mind. He touched John's shoulder, stopping him.

"No," he insisted. "I want to see your face." If he could see Dad's face, he would know if he did this wrong.

Dad smiled. "Alright," he answered and turned onto his back. Dean gazed down at him. Dad's body showed the wear and tear of more than twenty years as a hunter. To Dean, every mark, every scar, was a medal of honour. John was a hero. He was _Dean's_ hero. He reached down and felt the hard ridge of a scar with his fingertips, remembering the night he'd sewn the injury closed.

More than anything in the world, Dean wanted his dad to _need_ him. He'd tasted John's need for him two years before and he wanted it now. And John was giving it to him. His need, his trust, his love. He opened his body to Dean and guided Dean's hand into him.

"Now," John murmured.

Dean pushed his lubed fingers into John's ass. He felt the tight ring of muscle contract in protest but Dad showed no sign of pain. John breathed out and Dean felt him relax. He pushed in, working the lube in deep. He thought of that strong, hot muscle around his dick and a moan escaped him. He stroked down Dad's inner thigh with his free hand, savouring the softness of the skin there. Little of John was soft but here, where the thigh met the groin, the skin felt almost delicate...untouched.

"Dean," John breathed, pleading. "Dean, now."

They weren't ready, but Dean could not deny the urgency in Dad's voice. Nor did he want to; his own lust rose up and he was grateful he'd come once already because now he could take his time. He knelt on the bed between Dad's thighs and tore open a condom wrapper. _Safety first, son, just like with guns. Especially if you're with another man_. He felt John's unspoken approval but his fingers fumbled in his eagerness as he rolled the familiar rubber over his dick.

God. He was really doing this. Dad needed him to do this...

"Dean..."

"Teach me," Dean said again. The words were a caress, a tease.

John smiled. "Dude, for this you don't need lessons." He reached up to Dean. "Come here."

Dean needed no further urging. He lifted John's legs to his shoulders, kissed the inner side of his knee, licked the skin, teasing. Then he could wait no longer and he pushed his dick into John's ass. He pushed in slowly and, oh, god, it felt amazing. It was hot, slick with lube...and it was John. John reaching up to him, raw need and lust in his face. John crying out for him. John, hard for him. John, open for him.

"John," Dean groaned. He stilled, buried to the hilt inside John, savouring the feeling as if it would never come again.

"Fuck me!" John demanded.

Even like this, when he was nominally in charge, Dean instinctively obeyed his father's voice. He began to move and cried out with the pleasure of it. His hands sought flesh to hold; he gripped John's shoulders as he fucked him. His eyes found John's face; John's eyes were closed, but then he looked up and their eyes met with an intensity that was almost too much. Dean couldn't look away, couldn't even blink. What he saw in John's eyes frightened him.

He wrenched his gaze away, a nearly physical effort, and bent down to taste John's skin. His bruised ribs protested at the movement, reminding Dean of the earlier hunt. He remembered the stink of the werewolf in the woods, its foetid breath in his face and the terrifying moment when it turned its attack from him to Dad. Dad could have died tonight.

Death was always a risk on a hunt, but it struck Dean then with new impact. He could have lost Dad. They _both_ could have died out there!

Dean forgot his resolution to be gentle. He thrust harder into John's ass. He needed to _feel_ it, banishing the memory of terror with each stroke. He felt John strain to meet his thrusts, heard their mingled voices. But it wasn't enough.

Though he couldn't have expressed it in words, Dean understood his dad's need to submit. He knew something of the weight Dad carried, every day, and understood that for this short time, in this room, John could surrender it all. Though Dean didn't reason it out, he knew that only _he_ could be what John needed and the knowledge fired him more than any other lover ever had, or could.

Dean pulled out of John and began to change their position. John caught his intent and co-operated, moving onto his knees. But that wasn't what Dean wanted. He pushed John down so he lay on the bed, one leg drawn up almost to his chest. Dean lay above him, their bodies touching everywhere possible, and thrust into him hard and fast. It drew an inarticulate cry from John.

Dean groped for John's dick and found it, closing his fist around the hard flesh. "Oh, god!" he gasped, his fingers sliding in sweat and lube and pre-come. "Come. Oh, please come!" He worked John's dick almost frantically, as if it were his own he touched.

John turned his head, seeking Dean's mouth. Dean kissed him, their tongues thrusting together. A moment later John groaned into his mouth as he climaxed. His body tightened around Dean's dick, his back arched and he thrust into Dean's fist. Hot semen spilled over Dean's hand and Dean felt his own release at last, filling them both with the rush of heat and lust.

***

John couldn't seem to stop touching his son, as if now he knew he _could_, he was afraid of losing it again. Dean was curled against his side, one arm carelessly across John's chest, one leg laid over John's as if trapping him there. John's fingers traced the line of Dean's jaw, combed through his hair; his lips sought the boy's temple or his forehead. In the warm afterglow of sex, John thought he could have lain there forever, safe on a purloined bed, away from the world that would condemn him for what they had just done.

Time would not stand still, however, and before long the sweat cooling on his skin raised gooseflesh and chill. Reluctantly, John slid out of Dean's embrace and Dean sat up, moving a little away from him.

 

"We'd best be getting back to Sammy," John suggested.

"Yes, sir." Dean picked up his clothing piece by piece, making a pile of it on the end of the bed.

As he worked, John looked at him critically. "Dean. Clean yourself up before you get dressed or Sammy won't believe we've been near a hospital. You'd better wear my shirt: yours is soaked with werewolf blood."

Dean nodded, gathered up John's shirt and disappeared into the bathroom with the clothing in his arms. A few seconds later, John heard the shower start.

John stared at the closed bathroom door for a long time. With that order, he had shattered the mood between them. For a few hours they had been lovers. They had been equals. Now they were father and son again, captain and soldier. John mourned the loss, and felt the responsibility of their familiar roles, but the weight seemed less than it was.

He dressed while he waited for Dean. John knew he had forced adult responsibilities on Dean when the boy was far too young for the burden. But now Dean was a man. Dean made his first kill tonight and it was a good, clean kill. Already, he was a skilled tracker, and a better shot than his father. In a few years he would be ready to hunt on his own...or perhaps with Sammy. Yes, it was time to get Sammy more involved. Dean would need a partner he could rely on if anything happened... Very few hunters lived long enough to retire.

Dean opened the bathroom door. Without the grime and blood obscuring his face, John could see the cut clearly. It was much smaller than he had thought; with luck it wouldn't even scar. John's shirt looked a little big on Dean. John felt new arousal, seeing Dean in his clothing. He wondered if Dean smelled him on that shirt. The thought made him want to touch Dean, to kiss him, hell, just tear that shirt off him and drag him back onto the bed. He even stood up and took a step toward Dean, but he stopped himself there. If he gave in to the impulse, they would not leave this room before dawn. And there was Sammy to consider.

So John said simply, "Let's go."

Not until they were in the car did John realise the thing he should have said sooner. With the Impala's engine running, he turned to Dean, meeting his eyes in the darkness.

"Dean, you did well tonight, son."

Dean looked surprised. "Uh..."

John smiled, aware that Dean had misunderstood him. "I meant the hunt. It was a good kill and you saved my life. Thank you."

Dean grinned back. "So...what are we hunting next?"

John faced front again and started to drive. "I don't know yet. I've picked up a couple of reports about a phantom hitch-hiker up in Minnesota. We could check that out. There should be time before winter closes the roads."

"Sounds good," Dean agreed. He rummaged in the glove compartment, found a tape, pushed it into the stereo and hit play.

John smiled to himself as the first distinctive chords of _Smoke on the Water_ filled the car. Life was good.

**~ End ~**

 


End file.
